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The shattered facade of my so called life is stuck.
It's stuck in a never ending loop created by my own imagination and nightmares.
Unable to reach the light without burning my whole body to ashes.
Unable to breathe without swallowing the water I'm drowning in.
Thinking of him and only him.
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My world is made up, my reality veering away from his truth.
Figments of my dreams turning into my worst nightmare.
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That is my life. That is what is done to me. That is what he gives me.
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Through every handful of pills I have to swallow down, my reality becomes his.
If that is his wish then I shall make my nightmare his own.
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So as he wakes up with the smell of coffee in the air, the sunlight streaming through the cracks of the curtains.
I hope he remembers what I do for him as well as what I do to him.
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Is reality yet just a picture of the living or is it the reflection of the dead?
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YOU ARE READING
Let the Demons Loose
Short StoryLucidity is nothing compared to Reality yet, what is the difference? Memories, thoughts, dreams... Recollection of my worlds. Honestly don't even know in what category this should go. Mixture of poetry, small stories, rants.
